


Spin

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-09-30
Updated: 1999-09-30
Packaged: 2018-11-20 12:03:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11335290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: A hot night in the old town.





	Spin

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Spin by DBKate & Te

ArchiveX: 30 July 1998  
Spin  
by DBKate & Te  
  
  
Category: M/K slash  
Rating: NC-17  
Spoilers: Up to US Season Five  
Summary: A hot night in the old town. Takes place after "Falling."

* * *

~~~~~~~~~~~  
"Guarda com' entri e di cui tu ti fide;  
non t'inganni l'ampiezza de l'intare!"  
      -- The Inferno of Dante  
~~~~~~~~~~~~

If you think about it, Las Vegas is merely Hell's cocktail lounge.

A watering hole stuck in the middle of an inferno; a blinking wayside cracked into a space so vast, so empty, and so boiling hot, that even those who swear abstinence go there and get caught up in its drenching -- its terrifically cooling, vice. It's light and ice surrounded by fire, both wonderful and terrible in its awesome gaudiness -- its Devil's coat of many colors.

Such a nice place to be damned, thought Fox Mulder.

It was three in the morning and he couldn't sleep. Not that that was anything unusual in itself, but he usually didn't spend his darkest sleepless moments wandering down a blinding strip of neon; surrounded by the sounds of squealing tires, beckoning whores and shrieking gamblers. The main street of Las Vegas sounded like a bell factory, even this close to dawn, with the ting! ting! ting!...crash! ting!ring!ting!...clatter! rushing past him, sounding sharp upon the dry desert air.

It cried: "Winner! Be A Winner! I'm a Winner and You Can Be Too!"

Such a nice sound for born losers, he thought wryly.

Mulder passed by the Flamingo Hotel and Casino, a screaming pink palace of light, with the blast of air conditioning greeting him at its wide open entrance, beckoning him to enter and savor the relative cold. The desert may cool down from its daytime average of one hundred plus at night, but eighty degrees is still eighty degrees no matter what.

It looked more than inviting.

//Oh, the road to Hell is an easy one...the gates are always open.//

Mulder hesitated by the doorway, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other, staring into the casino's shiny depths, with the *ring-ting-ring-ting-ting-ting-clatter* sounding like a child's instrument; a harmless toy.

And the air-conditioning felt too good; it was taking away his headache, and making him feel so much more alive. He knew that casinos pumped three times the amount of pure oxygen into their processed air, precisely to achieve this false euphoria in their clients so that they'll continue to gamble even during the darkest morning hours, but he pushed that file back into his mental cabinet.

Because it felt -really- good. And besides...

They'd hooked him already.

Mulder wandered into the casino and took a deep breath. He felt amazed as the throbbing in his head disappeared, and the manufactured giddiness took its clawing hold.

Yeah, baby. Pull out a couple of dollars from the pocket, throw them into the machine, because hey, hey, hey, hey -- maybe my luck will change for the better, because I can be...I can be...

I can be a winner.

For once in my life.

Before Mulder knew it, the coins were dropping and the buttons were being slapped by two fingers; then by his whole hand. He tried to play with timing, then with intuition; then debated calling the Psychic Hotline for outside help. The money, along with everything else disappeared, and his world became a whirl of numbers and cartoon fruit, coming to precise, shuddering stops in all the wrong places.

He was losing...but that was nothing new.

He was down to his last two quarters when the voice came up behind him and that voice was as hot as the outside air itself. "I thought you hated one-armed bandits."

Mulder's throat caught, but he didn't turn around. He simply threw another quarter into the slot and yanked at the lever. One blue seven, one red seven...

One bar.

He cursed softly under his breath, as a chuckle sounded behind him. "You're not doing it right. Here...allow me."

A hand reached into his change, pulled out his last quarter and loaded it into the slot. The same hand crossed before him and pulled the lever down slowly...lovingly -- hesitating at the bottom of the pull, and then letting the lever fly up on its own.

The wheels spun, whirling their colors and the *changchangchangchangchang* sounded. One red seven. Another red seven....

Bingo.

At the third red seven, the alarm sounded; the bells screamed, and even the jaded turned to look. Mulder closed his eyes and refused to watch as he heard the avalanche of coins hitting metal.

A dry whisper in his ear. "Winner."

Mulder opened his eyes, but refused to turn around. He handed his business card to the confused casino manager who'd run up to pay him, gaping as he, the winner, got up from his stool and walked away.

But the voice of Alex Krycek refused to be left behind. "You hit the jackpot, Mulder. Aren't you happy yet?"

Mulder turned and stared at the lithe, green-eyed man standing in front of him for a moment before turning away. He casually made his way through row after row of empty slots and headed toward the gaming tables. "Not yet," he replied indifferently.

"I figured as much. Where's your partner?" asked Krycek casually..

"Being a good agent and getting her sleep at the hotel," replied Mulder, an edge catching in his voice. "Why do you ask?"

Krycek shrugged, with only one shoulder. "No particular reason. This time."

Mulder's fists clenched, his ire firing immediately, but he restrained himself. "Don't go there, Krycek," he replied, the anger now palatable.

Sharp, short laugh. "Don't be so testy. There'll be times I visit on business, but this isn't one of them. I was actually hoping to get you to play a round of blackjack with me."

A wry grimace crossed Mulder's face. "Oh, yeah? Why blackjack?"

A whispered reply, short and teasing against his ear. "I'm just dying to hear you say *hit me.*"

Mulder nearly laughed aloud at this, and to Krycek's great surprise, he nodded. "Sounds interesting. But I should warn you..."

Raised brow, above eyes as hot as the desert itself. "I usually win at blackjack."

~~~~~~~~

The table was covered with numbers, felt and nearly fifty thousand dollars.

The dealer was a bored looking man, maybe thirty, maybe forty, maybe much younger. Hell ages people quickly, so no one relies on mere looks. Mulder sat casually upon his high-backed stool, and Krycek sat next to him, dressed in a surprisingly trim combination of black cotton t-shirt and black denim; no leather in sight.

One card down, one card up. House advantage; jack showing.

A scrape of nail against the felt.

Another card dealt. Eighteen showing; short wave of the hand.

Scrape against the felt. Slap down card. Twenty showing.

House shows hand. Nineteen, house.

Fox Mulder wins.

Another hand, scrape/slap/wave/flip/scoop. Mulder wins again.

And so it went on, for over an hour. Krycek's eyes narrowed with concentration, his fingers tick-tapping against the felt. Mulder's expression didn't change, as nearly every hand went his way.

//scrape/slap/wave/flip/scoop//

Winner.

The pit boss' lip began to make ominous twitches. Winners are not made in Hell's Cocktail Lounge...its admittance policy was Losers Only. The dealer was getting nervous. Krycek's expression grew darker as his money disappeared, seemingly from his pocket into Mulder's hand and the tension at the table grew, until the last hand from the shoe was dealt.

One card down, one card up. Dealer shows seven.

Pair sevens, Mulder. Splits. Stupidly. Nearly a thousand dollars on the felt.

Brow raises over green eyes. Pair aces; splits both, last ten spot down.

//scrape/slap/wave//

Blackjack two times over. Winner...Alex Krycek.

And Fox Mulder loses. Again.

With a shrug, Mulder smiled at the pit boss and threw a fifty at the relieved dealer before he rose from his stool and started to stroll away. Krycek jumped down and followed him, weaving his way through the now nearly empty casino.

A sharp hiss in Mulder's ear. "You bastard. You were counting cards."

Mulder shrugged. "A photographic memory should be good for something."

"Why did you lose the last hand then?" asked Krycek, as they exited the casino and found themselves back on the hot strip. "You didn't have to lose."

Another shrug. "Didn't want to break my streak."

It was Krycek's turn to laugh. "Figures."

"Does it?" asked Mulder, searching for the white lights of a cab, among the millions of lights that surrounded them.

"So, now what, Mulder? Back to the hotel and onto your next slide into the middle of something you'll never quite understand?" Krycek's tone was cutting, but not unkind.

Mulder sounded too tired to care. "That's probably an accurate summarization."

Krycek smiled broadly at him. "Well, then...how about letting me take you there?"

He motioned Mulder toward a limousine that was standing in front of the casino, a sleek black car, standing out against the riot of lights, with the sheer audacity of its austerity. Krycek walked up and opened the back door with a perfect chauffeur's flourish and Mulder hesitated but a moment before climbing in. It was now almost dawn, and he was much too tired for caution.

Besides, losers should take their rides where they find them.

Mulder heard the laughter as Krycek climbed in after him, and the car noiselessly slid away from the curb. Mulder sank back into the black leather and watched as the now noiseless street and muted lights rolled past through the grey-tinted windows, like a silent movie; colorized, but not with hues found in reality.

Krycek sat opposite him, his smile calm and knowing, and Mulder felt a slight pull in his stomach, a memory from the week before becoming sharp. A memory of another leather seat, but that one was sticky and hot, covered with sweat and flushed skin. A memory of kisses and...

A memory of falling.

He saw Krycek's smile widen.

It was obvious that he was remembering that night as well. "I like this town. I like the fact that you can gamble anywhere." Krycek leaned forward, and Mulder found himself mesmerized by a pair of bright eyes, the brightest green lights he'd seen so far.

A whisper, now nearly a kiss against his lips. "Even in the back of limos."

Mulder closed his eyes and tried to relax... only to be slammed against the plush seat back as Krycek abruptly hopped across and straddled him.

"What the--"

And there, finally, was the kiss he'd been waiting for. He opened his eyes, wanted to lose himself within all that green. The light was the real mistake, not the foreign tongue in his mouth, not the hand wringing moan after moan from him. Mulder felt bathed in their light, simple green, powerful and wild, a work of nature in the midst of all this artificiality. It seemed as though he should be able to read the other man's thoughts in the half-veiled eyes, but his brain couldn't follow the flares of intention.

He felt the hand drift, knew that his trousers were quickly being undone, but all Mulder could see was the palm tree growing just off the end line on that blurring sidewalk. He felt nothing but vague unease at the sight. Here was something that spoke of nobility, the triumph of Nature over the gaudy sprawl; but it was autumn and the world was grey. The tree was no different, but it had seemed to pulse, and he could feel the hand teasing him with a rush of blood and heat and he watched the branches claw at the sky. He couldn't keep his eyes open anymore, so he just bucked into that hand and tried to lose the vision of that awful tree, and chunks of broken asphalt, sawing off the side of those vital roots, seeming to tremble at the force of a thing that had made its own way.

And then they were tumbling, plush leather almost breaking the fall and he was crushed by the warmth, the simple solidity and he wondered what bits of himself would be broken off this time; what would be left trembling under the muted lights.

He opened his eyes just in time to catch another =flare,= , rows after rows of lights, but had no time to speculate on their meaning before Alex ground his cock hard against his own. The younger man quickly found a rhythm, and absentmindedly began to tug at Mulder's buttons. Those that didn't open immediately were simply sent flying. He felt the limo take a curve just a little too sharply and then Alex was lying full length on top of him, nipping at his jaw in apparent desperation.

"Dammit, Mulder! I can feel you. I know you want this so why won't you..."

//I'm not asphalt.//

It was ludicrous that the thought *wasn't* a non sequitur, that it had actual relevance to his life at this moment in time, careening through the desert, trying to get laid by a man he should... he should...

Mulder laughed then, nearly bellowed with it. He knew Krycek would have no idea what was going on in his head, but then assumed the other man could appreciate the vibrations from his amusement. He worked his hands between them, cupped the stubbled jaw and brought him in for a kiss, simultaneously fanning his legs for the other man.

//Yes. Yes, that's it. I want more. I want...I want...//

//I want to win.//

He felt the warm tongue slid down his neck, felt his shirt and pants sliding off with smooth, slow motions. The car leather was cool against his bare skin, the air conditioning creating the same oxygen-heavy, giddy environment as in the casino. Krycek's hand was everywhere, and there were laps of a tongue in his navel, harsh nips on the insides of his thighs.

Mulder spread himself further open; opening like the palm trees that flew by them, fanning himself, just skin and bone and heat sprawled everywhere carelessly. He gave in, he gave up; gave up to Krycek, and soon felt nothing but skin against his own, as Krycek's own clothes were shed. Mulder pulled the other man closer, pulled him back to his mouth, plunging his tongue inside, and letting his hands wander over muscle and skin. Everything was blurring; the lights outside the window, as they tumbled over the leather seats, and he felt the carpet burn at more than one point.

The world was going in circles; even the limo itself. Mulder could feel the one-sided turn of the wheels; he saw the spin of the Vegas lights. Krycek's mouth abandoned his and worked its way down his stomach, sucking his navel, marking his skin. Mulder groaned, and arched into the touch, aching on the inside as well as burning on the outside. The first touch of tongue and stubble along the crown of his cock nearly made him scream, but he bit his lip instead, tasting blood.

No, no, he wanted to cry out. I don't want teasing or gentleness. I want it now, like the flashing lights, like the money changing hands, like the tick/tick/tick of the gaming tables. Win or lose...win or lose...come on. I have no time to...

As if he'd heard, Krycek swallowed him whole.

And yes, Mulder bucked into the hot mouth, trying to shove himself further inside; trying to push himself whole into that mouth, to be obliterated, swallowed completely, body, bone, skin and soul. It was happening, happening fast like everything else in this town and he was falling, falling into the great desert canyon, into the valley of fire that surrounded them, and finally, he -did- scream; he didn't hold back...and didn't give a damn.

He was in Hell's cocktail lounge, and this was the best drink on the menu.

It was a great place to be damned, and he was damned in this limo, damned with Krycek and they had a playground all their own. Growling, he pulled himself from Krycek's panting mouth, and tore into the man above him. Mulder took him, took him completely without thought or permission. Krycek was gasping, crying out something, in some language Mulder had never heard of and didn't care to know, as he scraped his teeth over earlobes, biting sharply into nipples, and then sucked down the dark line of hair to Krycek's throbbing cock; purple and weeping at the tip.

Mulder sucked it down fully, felt the wheels screech and turn yet again underneath them, everything in circles it was, it was all never-ending. Krycek was crying out and bucking underneath him, his fingers wound tightly in his hair, causing pain, forcing his head further down. Mulder scraped his teeth along the cock in response and the fingers loosened. He sucked harder, and snuck a hand between Krycek's legs. Fondled the heaviness he found there and sought out the hidden heat behind them.

Without warning, he plunged a finger into Krycek, hard, and heard the unmistakable cry. The salty liquid spilled down his throat and he didn't even bother swallowing; he let it go where it would, down his chin, down Krycek's thighs, anywhere. He took a deep breath and looked up, and the green lights were glazed with wonder.

And the limo, along with the world, finally ended its spin...and came to a stop.

~~~~~~~

When Mulder found himself on the sidewalk in front of his hotel, with Krycek and the limo long gone, he noticed that the sun had risen over the strip and the neon that had surrounded him throughout the night had blinked its last and disappeared as well.

He pulled aimlessly at his shirt, now torn and wet, and tugged at pants that hung nearly down to his hips. The strip was completely empty; with the early morning gamblers not yet out, and the all-night demons having finally crawled back into their hidden lairs.

There was only him and that burning, awful sun, ready to rake its way across the desert it owned. He stared for a moment down the silent strip, trying to imagine a pair of fading green lights in the distance, but failing to see them, he turned around.

And went back into the hotel; back to his partner, his work...

Back to a world that simply refused to spin.

~~~~~~~~  
Fini.

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End file.
